


No Rest For The Wicked

by GiGiS89



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Mild Language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-26
Updated: 2018-09-26
Packaged: 2019-07-17 21:57:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16104629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GiGiS89/pseuds/GiGiS89
Summary: Crowley wonders if being the King of Hell was really worth it or if he should have stayed a Crossroads demon.





	No Rest For The Wicked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jld71](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jld71/gifts).



Authors note: This was my first time participating in this fantastic challenge. I was thrilled to receive my long-time beta [ Jld71's](https://jdl71.livejournal.com/) prompts. I'd also like to thank [Caranfindel](https://caranfindel.livejournal.com/) for the quick beta on this!

 

Its suit is shite.

This is all Crowley can focus on: the inferior quality of the cloth, the poorly sewn seams, the ill fit of it all. It’s pathetic. The tailor he used to be and the King he is now is offended on every level that this piece of rubbish of a demon would come before him with so little thought to his appearance. Not that it is any worse than any of the others lined up behind it, with their poor taste and their incessant pleading and whinging. Where are all of the quality souls: the connivers, the degenerates, the psychopaths? Where have they all gone? These days it seems he is surrounded by nothing but sycophants and buffoons.

Crowley shakes his head as he looks out into the crowd gathered before him. Demons wait patiently in line for an audience with him while his administrators cluster in small groups in the back of the room.

They come begging favor, he thinks, but can’t be bothered to look their best. Do none of these dolts understand the idiom “dress to impress”? Where is the reverence-the deference-for his position? He is the King of Hell, for fucks sake. Do these peons not think he warrants the effort? He should burn every last cheap suit in the room. Make them parade around in their charred meat husks. That is certainly more appealing than being subjected to this litany of Primark ware.

The demon before him glances up, apparently done with its sniveling. It looks up at Crowley expectantly. Oh, right, he was meant to be paying attention. Right then, what might this blighter’s grievance have been? He considers it for only moment before deciding he doesn’t really care. Without a second thought and with a snap of his fingers, he disabuses himself of the problem.

“Get him out of my sight.” He orders his newest assistant, who truth be told, doesn’t so much assist as he does bring him more work. What is the bloody point of delegating, if one must still do all of the work? There isn’t one competent, trustworthy soul amongst them. Whatever happened to honor among thieves?

“And send the rest away. I am bloody well done with the lot of them.”

Crowley never had these problems when he was King of the Crossroads.

The demons scurry out of the throne room, if one can even call it that. A dungeon with a high back chair hardly warrants the name. When he was just a lowly demon carving his way off the rack and later clawing his way out of the pit, he’d envisioned something much grander. He imagined gilded rooms, oozing charm and luxury. What is the point of being King if you don’t live like one?  His maisonette in Egerton Gardens is infinitely more grand.

He stands, taking in the empty room, and not for the first time wonders why he chose this path. Certainly, he had always been ambitious, wanting more from life than what his squalid childhood and menial profession had afforded him. He sought to acquire all he was denied by birth: money, power, the three inches that would take him from above average to glorious. (By god, it has been glorious. Best deal he ever made, that. Talk about exceptional returns.) His avarice knew no bounds. It propelled him to his position as King of the Crossroads. Earned him a spot as Lilith’s right hand man. Allowed him to claim the throne for himself.

He’s finally reached the top of the heap.

So why is he so dissatisfied? Why does he long for the days when he was unencumbered, free to pursue his pleasure, to cajole, corrupt and seduce any soul he chose. Bloody hell, those moments before a mark signs away their soul? Best foreplay in the fucking world. The high of holding a pure, innocent, self-sacrificing soul in the palm of one’s hand is incomparable. Centuries of autonomy, of finally reaping the rewards denied to him. Those were the days.  

Crowley curses his greedy heart for not knowing how to quit when you’re ahead.

King of Hell. Fuck. What a load of rubbish. What’s it brought him, but multiple opportunities to discover what being obliterated from existence truly means. What does it say that the most interesting part of his job these days is finding ways to fuck those flannel-clad muppets, Sam and Dean Winchester. Ah, and let’s not forget their idiot angel. He should have known the moment Ramiel wanted nothing to do with Hell that the position wasn’t worth having.

“Sir?” His assistant-Bob? Dan? Joe? Tom, Dick, Harry? (Curse these idiots and their insistence on keeping their mundane monikers. First thing he’d done was drop the label attached him at birth. Fergus MacLeod - doesn’t exactly instill terror, now does it?) clears his throat then drops to one knee, clutching his clipboard tightly to his chest. “We’ve got a bit of an issue in the rack room.”

Of course. Why wouldn’t there be? The larger question being why is this his problem? What the bloody hell are his people doing, if not their bloody jobs? How hard is it? Mutilate. Torture. Repeat. It’s not rocket science. He shakes his head, letting out a long irritated sigh.  Louis XIV didn’t even wipe his own fucking ass! Let alone get his beautiful, immaculately tailored clothing stained with the blood of all who perished in his name.

Whatever his name is watches him expectantly, patiently awaiting permission to proceed. Crowley searches within himself for the slightest interest and finds he has none.

Maybe he has gone soft. He’s not above admitting his motivation, his perspective was never the same after his brief addiction to human blood. Despite his best efforts and his continued sobriety, he hasn’t quite been able to bury his newfound doubt and remorse. Bloody Winchesters. He should have rid himself of them a long time ago.

Whatever his name is clears his throat. The rack room. Right.

Crowley glances around his dungeon of a throne room. He could give it all up. Let Abaddon have the whole kit and caboodle and go on with life: orgies at the maisonette, tea at the Travelers Club, leisurely strolls at Regent’s Park. He could leave all of it behind for someone else to handle. He sighs. Not bloody likely. Better to be the devil than to be at its mercy. No, he may not love his position, but he’s sure as Hell not going to give it over to some Jenny-come-lately. Abaddon wants the throne? She’ll have to take it, just as he has had to take what he wanted.

Whatever his name is whimpers, “Sir? The Rack Room.”

Crowley squares his shoulders. Reminds himself how hard he’s worked for this and of how much joy the pain and suffering of others has brought him over the years. There is still plenty of time for him to turn Hell into his own personal Heaven.

“Right then, what the bloody hell is the problem now?”


End file.
